


every time i see your face (i get all wet between my legs)

by Cerberusia



Category: Homestuck
Genre: Inappropriate Erections, M/M, Masturbation
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-04-27
Updated: 2015-04-27
Packaged: 2018-03-26 02:26:59
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,619
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3833548
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Cerberusia/pseuds/Cerberusia
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>"Are you telling me," he interrupts, eyebrows drawn together, "that my dancestor is nine sweeps old, plus however fucking long you've all been dead, and still pops a wiggly in a stiff breeze like a six-sweep-old with his sweaty frond nubs permanently attached to his shameglobes?"</p>
            </blockquote>





	every time i see your face (i get all wet between my legs)

**Author's Note:**

> Title from Pansy Division's _Flower_. The rest of the song is filthier than that quote.
> 
> This was inspired by a prompt on the kink meme, which wanted 'uncontrollable bulges', suggesting one that wouldn't leave its owner's nook alone - 'maybe that's why Kankri wears his pants so high?'

Your name is Kankri Vantas, and you have never filled a quadrant in your entire, absurdly drawn-out existence.

This doesn't bother you! You are celibate, have been for sweeps, and are perfectly content with that. It's a _choice_. It is not, as Mituna once unkindly suggested, that no-one would have you.

You choose to put the effort most trolls put into romantic endeavours into teaching, instead. And your favourite pupil is your anscendent, who disagrees vociferously with what you say but still sits there and listens - or at least sits there and looks bored. His manners leave much to be desired (#rudeness, #teaching).

This time you've found him in a meadow, green and purple grasses attended by butterflies. This part of the bubble is made up of your own memories, and you tell him so.

He looks interested, so you elaborate on your life on Beforus: you lived in a little hive in the countryside, where you had to endure regular concerned visits from a neighbouring cooler-blooded troll but stubbornly resisted being culled (#tw: culling mention, tw: claustrophobia). He looks, dare you think it, sympathetic.

You expand this into a general discursion on the problems inherent in the caste system and the terms 'blueblooded' and 'rustblooded' (#tw: casteist slurs). His eyes start to glaze over, but his frown is only one of concentration.

Then you relate this to the experiences of off-spectrum haemotypes like yourselves, and Karkat suddenly looks thunderous.

"I understand," you say with a sympathetic air, "that you prefer to consider your own experiences of haemomarginalisation as entirely unlike those experienced by off-spectrum haemotypes on Beforus and that their solutions must also be different, but I really can't condone the violent resistance advocated by my post-scratch iteration and others as a tool for achieving his laudable goal of peace and haemoequality when methods of non-violent resistance such as-"

"I don't fucking care what methods of 'non-violent resistance' you can think up," Karkat snaps. You miss the days when he was too awestruck to talk back. "'Non-violent resistance' in front of an imperial drone just gets you culled more neatly than if you'd tried to run." His arms are folded over his chest and he glowers at you in irritation. He's very close. (#tw: violence, #violent resistance)

"I understand that 'imperial drones', as you call them, have not yet been found capable of reason, but trolls with cooler blood could surely be made conscious of their responsibilities as possessors of lifespan privilege and-"

Karkat cuts you off again, scoffing (#rude).

"Oh yes, just fucking walk up to a highblood and say 'Excuse me, have you ever considered that instead of using lowbloods as servants and menial labour, you could try thinking of them as trolls of equal intellect and dignity to your own?' Now _that's_ a fucking laugh. If you were lucky, they'd cull you quickly for impudence instead of throttling you with your own intestines. You understand grubfucking _shit_." His voice is raucous in anger.

"Karkat, I have explained the inherent problematicism in the terms 'highblood' and 'lowblood'," you try to interject, but Karkat continues his tirade over you:

"And here I am listening to you expound on how _you_ think it worked on Alternia - muffled, by the way, by your head being up your own nook - and how we could all achieve perfect blood caste equality if only we _talked it out_ with highbloods who, let me remind you, are all fuck-off huge and _bugfuck crazy_ -" He's edged closer during his harangue.

And then, horror of horrors, you feel something uncoil behind your bone sheath. Oh, not _now_.

"- because you wouldn't know real oppression if it bulgeslapped you right in your shitspewing protein chute!" Karkat is only a foot away, thick eyebrows drawn together like angry caterpillars, teeth - blunt, like your own - bared. His stance is unconsciously aggressive (#tw: aggression)

The tip of your bulge snakes out of its sheath to press against your underwear. Karkat is still talking, but your attention is only half on him.

"Karkat," you try, hoping to regain control of the conversation, but he cuts you off.

"Don't fucking interrupt me. You've _had_ your turn, you've had your turn five fucking times over. Do you actually listen to the agrarian fertiliser that exits your chitinous windhole?" And he's off again. His strident tone and verbal abuse are making you wet. More of your bulge squirms out, indubitably making some strange shapes at your crotch. This is terrible.

"- all because you're so dead-set on being _right_." Karkat's nostrils flare with rage. You know yours do the same when you're really worked up.

"I try," you say when he pauses to heave in a breath - goodness he does have a lot of lungpower for such a small troll (#nosizeismintended), "to be able to acknowledge when I am wrong and learn from my mistakes, since having been raised in a culture steeped in entrenched privilege we are all bound to make errors as we work through our cultural conditioning, although I don't believe you're even trying-"

You are cut off by Karkat's shriek of rage, which you find more frightening than you would like to admit.

"You? Learn from your mistakes? Look around you, nooksniffer! No-one else in your session can fucking stand you because you keep _lecturing_ them on shit that has _nothing to do with reality_." You bristle indignantly, and the tip of your bulge prods at your nook. Oh, thank God your jumper covers your crotch (#tw:religiousappropriation).

"I merely try to educate them on the potential in all of us to thoughtlessly perpetuate the kyriarchical power structures of our former homeworld, as is-"

" _Shut the fuck up_." Karkat, nose inches from yours, eyes like coals, snarls this out in such a venomous tone that you do actually shut the fuck up with a tiny squeak. Before you can regain your equilibrium he continues: "God, you're such an _insufferable_ stuck-up bulgeache. You don't fucking _listen_ , that's your problem." He has you backed up against the wall. Your bulge slips into your nook at last: your mouth opens in shock.

Karkat clamps his hand over it. The texture of his palm and fingers is rougher than yours, callused. Your bulge writhes between your thighs, wriggling further into your nook. You know you're blushing.

"You just talk right over everyone because you're so totally fucking convinced that you're _right_ , you patronise Mituna and Porrim and probably other people too, and then you suck up to _Cronus_ , of all enormous douches. You're not just a blowhard, you're a _hypocrite_ and I hate you _so fucking much_." Karkat's chest is heaving, his eyes are alight, his teeth are bared and under his words is a threat-display growl. Does he know what he just said? Even you know a blatant black solicitation when you see one.

"Gnngh," you say, your bulge lashing inside you. His broad palm over your mouth seems to burn. " _Nnnnngh_." You fight to keep your eyes open and your legs steady; your bulge squirms and your knees feel weak.

But Karkat must assume that you've gone pink and incoherent with anger, because he doesn't spring away and start sputtering in horror (or shove you to the ground and climb atop you), just keeps his narrow-eyed glare fixed on you and his hand over your mouth. You can smell his skin, the sweet-sourness of his sweat. He's obviously so much stronger than you despite being younger and smaller, and the thought makes your nook contract.

After a long, agonising moment in which you desperately try to pretend that your bulge isn't fully seated in your nook and going to town on it while you stare into his eyes, he takes his hand away from your mouth. You automatically open it, suck in a breath to explain to him exactly where he has misinterpreted your efforts - and then he grabs you by the jumper, getting a good fistful and pulling it up and forwards, so your bodies are pressed together. You can feel his body heat through both your clothes, feel the strength in his arm keeping you just where he wants you. His thigh presses between yours.

And you, well, you moan. Loudly, clearly and pornographically. Your bulge flexes vigorously, your nook clenches, and your eyes half-close.

Karkat pauses. His breath hits your face. You try with great force of will to keep your bulge still. When, after a few seconds, you manage to open your eyes again, he's staring at you with a very different expression. Your bulge twitches inside you, and he flinches. He must be able to feel it on his thigh. Oh, what a mess. And you don't just mean your soaked leggings.

"...You cannot be serious," he says at last. You gather the tattered remnants of your dignity.

"Please don't assume that my _situation_ has anything to do with you," you say, rather primly. "This is purely random, without any discernable stimulus, perfectly normal and common-"

"Are you telling me," he interrupts, eyebrows drawn together, "that my dancestor is nine sweeps old, plus however fucking long you've all been dead, and still pops a wiggly in a stiff breeze like a six-sweep-old with his sweaty frond nubs permanently attached to his shameglobes?"

He's _awful_. Your ears grow hot with shame. "Genital arousal does not cease when one finishes adolescence," you sniff. The tip of your bulge is twitching inside you, little flicks against your inner walls. You try not to shake.

"Yeah, but you're supposed to develop some kind of self-control!" Karkat seems to loom over you. "What, do you just spend your lectures secretly pailing yourself? Do you get off on boring people to tears?" He sneers; you bare your teeth.

"Ngh - no, I do not, and I resent the assertion that my attempts to educate my fellow trolls is _dull_. If you have any suggestions for enlivening the difficult process, please give them - _ahhh_." You trail off into a squeaky moan as your bulge squirms violently, seating itself as far into your nook as possible. Your legs tremble and threaten to give out: you lock your knees and twist your hands into your sweater.

Karkat is now also distinctly pink around the ears. Good, you can both be embarrassed about this awful situation, so you will tacitly agree never to speak of it again and go your separate ways.

If only Karkat would move his leg a little...Or maybe just go back to insulting you. Your bulge could do all the work.

 _No_ , you aren't going to just stand here and get off on him insulting you!

Karkat is still a bit pink, and is still staring at you.

"You're such a _bitch_ ," he says, low and venomous. Oh god, you're totally going to stand here and get off on this. Your eyes close as your bulge thrashes again inside you. You wish there were something to lean on. You wish Karkat would go away. You wish Karkat would put his hand between your legs.

"What, so instead of getting off on telling other people how bad they are, you get off on being told how bad _you_ are?" Karkat sounds contemptuous. Your thighs quiver. How would his bulge feel inside you? Would it be just like your own? "Or maybe that's why you do it: who was it who said that the masochist goes out looking to be smacked down and the sadist sits back and watches? All those times when you cornered me to blather on and on about pointless shit, were you hoping to piss me off?"

"N-no," you gasp. You hadn't: you genuinely wanted to educate him, to do your duty as an older and more experienced troll. But now you're _thinking_ about it, about Karkat shoving you about and pushing you to your knees. You let out a wet gasp as your bulge hits your seedflap; your hands go to your crotch, rubbing desperately between your legs.

Karkat slaps you across the face, hard. The sting as your head whips to one side is the single most erotic thing that's ever happened to you. You want to fight back, slap him in return, run your fingers up under his jumper and drag your claws down his tender sides.

"Take your pants off, nookwhiff," he says. He's breathing hard too.

"Fuck," you whimper. " _Fuck!_ " You push up your jumper and unzip your leggings, dragging them down about your ankles because you're too desperate to take your boots off. Your hands go back between your legs, and the sensation of them rubbing where your bulge has plunged back into your nook makes your knees buckle. Red lubrication dribbles down your thighs. You fall to the ground, knees spread wide for balance as you pull at the inch of bulge left outside your nook with one hand and grope around your entrance with the other. It hardly soothes the burning itch of arousal.

Your bulge thrusts into you, contracting and thickening then suddenly elongating.

"Haaah, haaah-" You can't feel anything but your bulge battering your nook, how everything is so hot, so good, so desperate. You open your eyes again to look at Karkat, hoping he'll call you a slut in that growly voice. Instead, he's biting his lip and staring at you - and that's definitely a wiggly in his jeans.

Immediately, your imagination goes wild. He could pull down his pants and show you his bulge, his wet nook - red, like yours. He could drag you forward by the hair and shove your mouth into his nook and you'd lick as deeply as you could, eager to find where he's tender, and then you'd beg, _beg_ for him to cram his bulge up your hungry nook, fill you up and fuck you til you _screamed_ -

"Bucket," you gasp, bulge frenzied inside you, nook dripping, "bucket!"

Karkat just snarls at you. His eyes, still wriggler-grey, are like burning coals as he stares at your crotch where you're fucking yourself. He's not going to let you-? You hunch over, nearly falling as you feel your climax building.

He lifts a foot and, with a toe under your chin, firmly pushes you back. Your arms go out behind you for balance, the earth under your palms, and Karkat can see _everything_. Your eyes roll back in your head as, with a long, high-pitched moan, you come, bulge pulsing and expanding inside you as you gush fluids, pouring out of you to puddle in the grass between your thighs. You jerk and gasp as the waves of pleasure rip through you.

At last, still trembling, you manage to open your eyes again. Karkat is still staring at you, but now _he's_ rubbing at his wiggly through his pants, biting his lip. Your nook throbs as your bulge slowly slides out of it and you start contemplating Karkat's bulge in it instead. Shakily, you get to your feet, still dripping slurry, and grab Karkat's shoulders to shove him backwards. You envision yanking down his pants and mounting him, his bulge seeking your nook, your hands around his monstrous little throat -

But as he falls backwards, he fades. He's waking up. The _bastard_! You snarl at each other impotently, and you're left alone with your pants around your ankles and the desire to shove something up your nook and fuck yourself on it until you come again, your heart full of hungry loathing.

You put your clothes back on and head for home, still throbbing with want, ignoring the puddle of slurry, which is not the act of a Concerned Citizen but right now you don't give a fuck. Next time he goes to sleep, you'll be _ready_.


End file.
